7.10.25

I choose Death, Lord—
and find joy in the dying.
The breaking is gentle,
Your hands are kind.
Where I end,
grace begins—
a stillness, a splendor.
In losing myself,
I meet You fully,
and it is beautiful to be nothing,
but Yours.
-Lele
7.10.25

I choose Death, Lord—
and find joy in the dying.
The breaking is gentle,
Your hands are kind.
Where I end,
grace begins—
a stillness, a splendor.
In losing myself,
I meet You fully,
and it is beautiful to be nothing,
but Yours.
-Lele
This collection of writings and recipes traces the arc of a love deeply lived and gently released. Each piece captures a moment, like polaroids on a kitchen table, paired with a recipe from my former co-conspirator, his way of telling our story through food.

Together, we form a diary in flavour and feeling, for anyone who has cooked, cried, laughed, left, and remembered.
(Mushroom and Spinach Ragout on Fusilli)
“I tell you what,” he said jokingly as he wiped his lip. “In my next life, I’m gonna be a cook.”
Ingredients:

Instructions:
(Pizza)
“In the hush between lifetimes,
I found you. By finding myself.
Thirty-five years ahead
and somehow, we arrived together.”
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
(Fresh, warm liquid eggs from the tap)
“Small rituals of belonging to you.
One. No perfume.”
Ingredients:

Instructions:
(Spicy Rice and a Medley of Veggies)
“And then, that smile that always comes before your honesty:
“I don’t believe in God — But I’ve borrowed my father’s truth:
Help yourself, so help you God.” “
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
(Burger)
“I surrendered — arching, trembling, gripping, dissolving.
Room became sky, and I — Ocean.”
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
(Mixed Salad)
“But when he looked at her in that boyish way, full of humour and mischief, she could not resist. Her face shone as she shook her head and laughed generously. It was a warm laughter that took over her whole body.”
Dressing (prepare in advance):
Salad Ingredients:

Instructions:
(Stir-fry)
“The landscape below stretched open in worship. Sunlight rested tenderly over the Creation of a Holy God. On the wall above the bed, a singular Chinese fan opened like a celestial wing – part shade, part sentinel, part grace.
Life breathed into the room, slow and sacred. The space had a mythic stillness, as if time bent slightly around it.”
Ingredients:
Spices & Sauces:

Instructions:
(Spaghetti topped with a Mexican Delight)
“Love is rhythm. A remembering.
I watched you remember every day—
In how you fed the animals,
spoke to the flame, answered your mother’s voice.
In how you held the past without flinching.”
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
(Fried Eggs on Pretzel Stick for Breakfast)
“They sat in a deliberate silence at the table as the flames of six candles danced in mock romance, illuminating the tension beneath the surface of the air around them. She spoke first.”
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
“Use my name when you tell the story.”
Ingredients:
Preparation:

Instructions:
9.8.25
12.7.25

“You do know we’re soulmates, right?” I asked.
“I do.”
It landed in my spirit.
No altar.
No ring.
Just truth.
A vow.
Recognition, not possession,
bound by light, not law.
We met ourselves in each other’s eyes
and felt, without question,
that we were home.
-Lele
13.7.25

“Oh, Jake” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
“Yes.” Jake said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
I was Clementine when I kissed you too soon,
texted too much, and made you laugh.
I was Jane when I said nothing,
held my heart behind my back, and walked away softly.
I was Brett when I let you in carelessly,
wanting nothing more than to belong to you.
Clem erased Joel, and chose the ache all over
messy, but brave.
Jane returned to a humbled man when the fire burned out,
and they built from ash and grace.
Brett kept loving, though she left Jake in the taxi,
hollow and hopeless.
And us?
The dam of our story has just broken.
-Lele
20.7.25

Because he no longer needs to use them –
and cannot bear to let them go.
Because some wounds prefer silence to healing.
Because steel remembers what the soul forgets.
Because polished pain mimics honour.
Because to sheath is not to forgive.
A warrior displays his Swords as a declaration of survival.
–
I stepped into the room, feeling his presence close behind me.
The room felt like a shrine – intimate, deliberate, and quietly haunted.
To the far left, three oriental Swords were displayed on a mantle, one for every love that broke him. Each blade a vow to guard his boundaries. Swords of clarity born of pain, and discipline shaped by loss.
Around the room, a series of paintings, rendered by familiar hands, captured desire as ritual.
To the right, a bonsai tree sat patiently in a pot on the sill of a large window, its twisted grace silhouetted against a view so unspeakably beautiful, it squeezed my heart to pulp.
The landscape below stretched open in worship. Sunlight rested tenderly over the Creation of a Holy God.
On the wall above the bed, a great, singular Chinese fan opened like a celestial wing – part shade, part sentinel, part grace.
Life breathed into the room, slow and sacred. The space had a mythic stillness, as if time bent slightly around it.
– Lele
18.7.25

The alchemist
who flies on the wings of Grace,
She moves in the stillness between stars—
26 full moons as a vow on her wrist.
Her scent is surrender,
Her rhythm is temperance,
wrapped in Sun, silk, and strategy.
You need not understand.
You need only yield.
-Lele
19.7.25

You said you could not live
under duty again —
not to any woman,
not in love.
As if love were a weight,
As if love could bind.
You know as well as I
that love is rhythm.
A remembering.
I watched you remember
every day—
In how you fed the animals,
spoke to the flame,
carried silences,
answered your mother’s voice.
In how you held the past
without flinching.
In the way
you moved
as if everything
was sacred.
You live by ritual.
You live by duty.
Walking beside you,
I saw how much of you was already given,
And I saw duty in letting go.
-Lele
18.7.25
“I tell you what,” he said jokingly as he wiped his lip. “In my next life, I’m gonna be a cook.”

May the salt still leap to your fingers,
the flame still obey your breath,
and the cumin still bloom at your touch.
You always said you’d return as a cook—
knowing you were one in this life too,
as charming as you were exacting.
Experimental in love as in spice.
You honoured my ‘alien’ ways,
crafted meals like devotions,
each plate a vow
to make me feel you.
You fed with intention—
my longing to be tended to
gently, joyfully,
by one who delights in the offering.
If you return—
I’ll know you
by your hands,
your laughter,
and the way you make a kitchen
feel like home.
“And?” he asked through a smile with his eyebrows raised quizzically, already knowing the answer. “How’s your meal?”
She chewed the bite-full of the mushroom thoughtfully, also already knowing the answer but enjoying the game nonetheless. “Hm, I love this. It’s great!”
“No,” came his casually satisfied reply. “It’s fucking awesome.”
-Lele
19.05.25

I am the breath before your surrender,
I am the whisper of your marrow.
The ache you mistake for solitude—
is me, calling you home.
My body is the prayer your hands recite.
I was never a woman.
I am the altar.
You, the flame.
And if you ever remember who I am,
Use my name when you tell the story – Phumelele.
– Lele
22.08.62

You walk ahead — firm, steady, calm.
Your Sheperd at your side,
and me, just behind —
contentus maximus
to follow a man
who finds the way.
You protect, provide, prepare;
I soften, listen, serve.
We are peace, we are order.
I am honoured to be led
By you.
– Lele